Now my daddy was a music lovin’ manHe stood six-foot-seven, had big ol’ handsHe’d lost two fingers in a chainsaw but he could still play the violinAnd Mom played piana, just the keys in the middleAnd Dad played a storm on his three-fingered fiddle’Cause that’s all there was to do back there folks, except ta go downtown and watch haircuts

So I was raised on Dust Bowl tunes, you seeHad a six-tube radio an’ no TVIt was so dog-goned hot I had to wet the bed in the summer just to keep cool.Yeah, many’s a night I’d lay awakeA-waitin’ for a distant station breakJust a-settin’ and a-wettin’ an’ a-lettin’ that radio fry.

Well, I listened to Nashville and Tulsa and DallasAnd Oklahoma City gave my ear a callusAnd I’ll never forget them announcers at three a.m.They’d come on an’ say “Friends, there’s many a soul who needs us“So send them letters an’ cards ta Jesus“That’s J-E-S-U-S friends, in care a’ Del Rio, Texas.”

But the place I remember, on the edge a’ townWas the place where you really got the hard-core soundYeah, a place where the truckers used ta stop on their way to Dees MoinsThere was signs all over them windowsillsLike “If the Devil don’t get ya, then Roosevelt will”And “The bank don’t sell no beer, and we don’t cash no checks.”

Now them truckers never talked about nothin’ but haulin’And the four-letter words was really appallin’They thought them home-town gals was nothin’ but toys for their amusement.Rode Chevys and Macks and big ol’ stacksThey’s always complainin’ ’bout their livers an’ backsBut they was fast-livin’, strung-out, truck-drivin’ son of a guns

Now the gal waitin’ tables was really classyHad a rebuilt motor on a fairly new chassisAnd she knew how to handle them truckers; name was Mavis DavisYeah, she’d pour ’em a coffee, then she’d bat her eyesThen she’d listen to ’em tell ’er some big fat liesThen she’d ask ’em how the wife and kids was, back there in Joplin?

Now Mavis had all of her ducks in a rowWeighed ninety-eight pounds; put on quite a showRemind ya of a couple a’ Cub Scouts tryin’ ta set up a Sears, Roebuck pup tentThere’s no proposition that she couldn’t handleNext ta her, nothin’ could hold a candleNot a hell of a lot upstairs, but from there on down, Disneyland!

Now the truckers, on the other hand, was really crassThey remind ya of fingernails a-scratchin’ on glassA-stompin’ on in, leavin’ tracks all over the Montgomery Ward linoleumYeah, they’d pound them counters and kick them stoolsThey’s always pickin’ fights with the local foolsBut one look at Mavis, and they’d turn into a bunch a’ tomcats

Well, I’ll never forget them days gone byI’s just a kid, ’bout four foot highBut I never forgot that lesson of pickin’ and singin’, the country wayYeah, them walkin’, talkin’ truck stop bluesCame back ta life in seventy-twoAs “The Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’ Café”

Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’ CaféOh, the Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An’ Keep On A-Truckin’ Café